


In Case Of Emergency

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-21
Updated: 2003-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:05:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ford/Zaphod. Ford needs money and he's desperate enough to try to get some from Zaphod.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Case Of Emergency

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Wildcard

 

 

Thanks to my betas. You know who you are. 

NOTES: Takes place prior to Ford's trip to Earth. Thus, Zaphod has two heads and two arms. In case you were counting. Also, "Ford" is, of course, an English representation of whatever the hell Zaphod calls Ford. Ix, perhaps. 

DISCLAIMER: Douglas Adams, of course, not me. We miss you. 

~ 

**IN CASE OF EMERGENCY**

"I need money, Zaphod." Ford looked around the bar nervously. 

"Yeah, man, I know," Zaphod said, downing his jhinantoniques and signalling the bartender for another. 

The bartender was a Sirius Cybernetics Mix-O-Tronic, Mark 2. It could mix every drink in the known universe and in several unknown universes as well, due to a device stored beneath the bar, consisting of a cat, a radioactive isotope, and a cocktail shaker. 

The Mix-O-Tronic analysed Zaphod's blood alcohol level, estimated ready cash, personality type, and the large electromagnet Zaphod had placed on the bar in front of him and determined that although Zaphod was on the verge of alcohol poisoning and almost certainly broke, serving him another drink was the safest course of action, at least for the Mix-O-Tronic. The Mark 1 had had less sophisticated logic circuits and none had lasted three months. 

"So, you have the money," Ford said, pointedly not ordering a drink. Though with Zaphod, he'd probably need to make his point with a blunt instrument. 

"What money?" Zaphod sipped his jhinantoniques with one head and puffed on a cigar with the other. 

"The money you owe me," Ford said patiently. "I need it now." 

"I owe you money?" Zaphod blew a smoke ring and spat a olive pip through the centre. 

"You owe me 10,000 Betelgeusian mongs but I'd rather have it in Altairian dollars, if it's all the same to you." 

"Have you been following the Hyper-Gladiators?" Zaphod asked, swivelling both heads over to a Tri-D screen in the corner of the bar. 

"Two bets, three loans, one IOU for my wrecked AstroSurf board, and one invoice for services rendered." Ford slid a Calc-U-Eeze along the bar. "It's all here." 

"Be cool, baby." Zaphod blew another smoke ring. "You know I'm good for it." 

Ford sighed. He'd known this wouldn't be easy, but he was in rather a hurry due to some unfortunate circumstances involving a crime syndicate, a 200% interest loan, and a missed payment date. "Zaphod, I need the money now." 

"Have a drink, Ford," Zaphod said. "You need to relax more. You're so tense, I could camp under you for a week." 

Ford glanced around the room. He was convinced he was being followed, but the problem was that every other person in the bar looked exactly like the sort of person that might be following him, so it was impossible to know for sure. Ford decided he really needed a drink. He got a double Old Janx Spirit on the rocks and put it on Zaphod's tab. "Okay, I'm relaxed," he said. "Now what about the money?" 

"When are you going to shut up about the money?" 

"When you give me the money." Ford tapped his fingers on the bar. 

Zaphod's faces lit up. "I'll give you a cheque." He reached inside his jacket. 

"No, I need cash." Ford thought it was time to change tactics and so he began to hum the Sinthian Flug Preparatory School Fight Song. 

The Fight Song was 472 verses long and had been sung before every game, match, and contest at dear old S'lug, which had caused many other schools to leave and forfeit rather than sit through the six hours necessary to perform every verse, including the 84 optional all-humming verses, one of which Ford was now in the middle of. 

It was calculated to remind Zaphod of his old school loyalties while at the same time breaking down his mental defenses so he'd be helpless to resist Ford's request. It didn't work, so Ford kicked Zaphod sharply on the ankle. 

"Ow!" Zaphod dropped his cigar onto the bar. The Mix-O-Tronic whisked it away. "What's with the violence, man?" 

"I need the money, Zaphod!" Ford said. He grabbed Zaphod's jhinantoniques and downed the rest in one gulp. "Now!" 

"Hey," Zaphod said, "you just had to ask." He waved at the Mix-O-Tronic who put the billplate in front of him. Zaphod left a print from the fake thumb he wore over his own whenever he went out drinking. He stood with a graceful motion that caused his jacket to swirl dramatically and his hair to flip rather interestingly. Then he passed out on the floor. 

~ 

Ford waited until he'd dragged Zaphod out into the street before going through his pockets. There was no money, of course, though Ford did find a cufflink he'd lost five years ago. The excitement he felt was lessened somewhat by the fact that the rather valuable red brokstone had been pried out and pawned. Zaphod still had the pawn ticket; there was a Sub-Etha comm code and the name "Julio" scribbled on the back. 

Ford slapped Zaphod, first one head, then the other. "Wake up!" 

Zaphod opened one eye, saw it was Ford, and closed it again. "Why would I want to do that?" 

"Because you need to get some money." 

At the word "money", Zaphod opened all of his eyes. "What's the money for?" He sat up and brushed dirt off his bright purple suit. "More drinks?" he added hopefully. 

"Even better." Ford leaned in and whispered loudly. "A bet." 

"Why didn't you say so, man?" Zaphod staggered to his feet, hauling himself up by pulling Ford's arm nearly out of the socket. "So, where's this money of yours?" 

Ford looked around the street. It was filled with shady characters so he could only assume some of them were watching him in an official gangster capacity. "You're holding it for me. If you go and get it for me, we can place the bet and in twenty-four hours, we'll be so rich, we can buy our own moon." 

"Just a moon?" 

"A fun moon. A moon where the life's purpose of every inhabitant is to make us happy. And to make us drinks." 

"What's the bet, baby?" 

"The Hyper-Gladiatorial contests on Strombus Major. I have a tip from the guy who programs the Battle Robots." 

"OK," said Zaphod, and pounded Ford on the shoulder. "I can get some cash together. I just have to make a few calls. C'mon." Zaphod attempted to lead the way by throwing all his weight on Ford. 

Ford walked in the direction Zaphod was leaning, dragging Zaphod along with him. Every few minutes, Zaphod would rouse himself enough to tell Ford he was going completely in the wrong direction. 

Ford briefly contemplated killing Zaphod. Nine systems had posted a bounty on him and it would be easier money than this. But the Personality Surgeons had never been able to fully remove Ford's conscience. As well, family legend maintained that if Zaphod were to die, the whole clan would turn out to never have been born. Zaphod, of course, responded to this superstition by behaving in the most reckless ways possible, flarediving off the seven suns of Gurria, hunting Slavering Razorbeast in the Very Dangerous Wilds of Bendel III, and eating in any number of small Junian restaurants. 

So instead, Ford let Zaphod direct him on a long and winding route to some secret apartment where Zaphod would then supply Ford with all the cash he needed. 

It turned out to be across the street from the bar. Of course, had Ford ever studied the philosophy of the Truthseeking Nuns of Space-Time, he might have saved himself some valuable time. 

The Truthseeking Nuns have spent millennia developing their philosophy which boils down to three precepts: 

  1. Spatial location is merely an illusion. 
  2. So is time. 
  3. When you've lost something, it's always in the last place you look. 



This allows the nuns to write home to their parents and assure them that they are cloistered in their convent on Acador Prime, searching for the meaning of life, while in fact they spend most of their time on the Beach Planets of Sulis, going to really great parties. 

~ 

Zaphod's room was in the basement. Getting Zaphod down the stairs reminded Ford of wrestling a Grappling Feckmonster, which he had done once on a dare. The Feckmonster had between 8 and 12 limbs -- Ford have never been able to count them -- and its strategy was to get its opponent so confused that he would break his own leg instead of the Feckmonster's. Ford hadn't broken any limbs, but he'd sustained a nasty self-inflicted sprain that kept him out of Tritian Star Ball, which had been all the rage at the time, and so had to spend every Star Ball match at the bar, being interesting to young women. 

Ford got both of them to the bottom with their limbs more or less intact. He dropped Zaphod into a chair. 

"Where's this money, then?" Zaphod said. 

Ford closed his eyes, counted to twenty, opened them, and kicked Zaphod again. 

"Hey, kid, that's not very nice, to kick a man in his own home. Wait until I've had a few hours sleep and I'll throw you out." 

"You need to make some calls," Ford said. "To get the money together." 

"For the bet." 

Ford thought he could hear someone on the stairs. "For the bet." He tossed the phone to Zaphod. 

Zaphod completely failed to catch it. It sailed over his shoulder and crashed onto the floor, breaking into several pieces. Ford stared at it in horror. Modern phones were made all of a piece, with the circuits imprinted right inside the plastic. Technophiles loved them because they were slick and shiny. Manufacturers loved them because they were simple and cheap to make. Stores loved them because they could never be repaired, only replaced, and they broke all the time. 

Ford hated them. But he had one and so he pulled it out of his satchel. "Why don't you give me the number," he said, "and I'll punch it in for you." 

Then Ford experienced a curious sensation, as though the ground had fallen out from underneath his feet. The falling didn't last as long as he thought it might because the ground then came up and slammed helpfully into his face. He heard a curious sound, like the growling of a mammoth dog, then a whole barrage of special effects such as buildings collapsing, rocks falling, people yelling, and plastic breaking. 

The indigenous people of Theta Theta, the planet that Ford and Zaphod were currently on, and possibly a little inside by now as well, believed that the centre of their world was inhabited by a large red dragon. When the dragon was happy, he slept. When he was unhappy, he began to thrash around and the thrashing would cause the earth to heave and shake and things would fall down on top of people and everyone else was unhappy too. 

The people kept the dragon happy by dropping things they thought he would like down inside volcanoes. Mostly they stuck with things like fruit and grain and stone carvings of happy dragons. But this year they had dropped a pallet of new plastic telephones down instead, with the result that there were now planet-wide earthquakes and tsunamis. 

The lights had gone out. Ford felt cautiously around and found that he was more or less intact, but that his plastic phone was cracked in half. He fished inside his satchel and pulled out a small torch. It wasn't broken, being sensibly made of several sturdy metal parts. He switched it on. 

Zaphod was still lying in his chair, which had wrapped around him and cushioned him against the eager greetings of the floor. His eyes were closed and he was singing an old Betelgeusian drinking song. 

Things had fallen down all over the room, but the walls and ceiling were intact. Except for the stairs, which looked to be completely blocked. Ford went over to take a closer look. They were completely blocked. The walls had crumbled and debris choked the entrance. Ford poked at it, but was unable to make any headway. 

"Fuck," he said, by way of relieving his feelings. "Fuck." It then ocurred to him that so long as he was trapped underground with Zaphod, the gangsters couldn't get to him. In fact, although Ford did not know it, he had indeed been followed by two thugs, Herglers from Hergle Delta. They had been tragically killed not a block away, when a delivery truck tipped over in the earthquake and spilled two tons of splume, a local fish, onto them. Being asphyxiated by fish is listed as #67 on the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Top 100 Worst Ways To Die. Being beaten to death by Hergler thugs ranks slightly higher at #63. 

Ford didn't know what to do, so he woke Zaphod up for some company. 

"Did you get the drinks?" Zaphod said. 

"There's been an earthquake, Zaphod. We're trapped down here with no phone." 

"So no drinks then." Zaphod looked around at the shambles and sighed. "Can we get out?" 

"No, Zaphod, we can't." Ford said. "That's what 'trapped' means." 

"But we want to get out?" 

"I think we do, yes." 

"Only one thing for it, man. We'll have sex." 

Ford felt like the ground was dropping away from under his feet again but he quickly realised it was only in a metaphorical way. "Did I bump my head during the earthquake? Because I thought you said--" 

"Post-disaster sex." Zaphod pushed a control on his chair and it flipped open so there was room for two. "Well-known fact. Work off adrenaline, celebrate the wonder of life. Get into a compromising situation so you'll be rescued." 

"We have to have sex or no one will rescue us." Ford knew that Zaphod would have sex with basically anything that moved, but he'd never included himself in the eligible field. Nor did he especially want to now. 

"Right. And it's a good way to pass the time." Zaphod heaved himself to his feet and came over to Ford. Ford backed away, but tripped over an overturned table. To stop himself from falling, a familiar sensation by now, he reached out and grabbed Zaphod's shoulders. 

"That's it, baby," Zaphod said and before Ford could even get his balance, Zaphod stuck one tongue in Ford's mouth and the other in his ear and pulled him down onto the chair. 

Ford struggled but Zaphod's hand was _here_ and his other hand was _there_ and his mouths were everywhere and then the hand _there_ did _that_ and Ford stopped struggling and joined right in. 

Great Zarquon, he thought, the stories are true. 

He tried to keep half his mind on what Zaphod was doing -- the mind-blowing kisses, the blistering hot touches, the thrusts and licks and bites -- so he could remember how to do them himself later on, but then Zaphod bent them into the Triple Free Leaf position, which was said by every reputable sexologist in the galaxy to be impossible and by the disreputable ones to be unbelievable and Ford found that his mind was fully engaged in enjoying all the reports it was getting from Ford's body about just how nice this all felt. 

Ford stopped trying to think and took his clothes off. He did his best to keep up and managed to get Zaphod off twice before he found himself on his back, tongue between his teeth, while Zaphod did something to him that only someone with two mouths could have done. Ford yelled something that he hoped was unintelligible and then blacked out. 

When he came to, he wasn't sure whether he had, in fact, come to or not, since it was completely dark. "Zaphod?" he said, to test. 

"Yeah?" said the sticky warm body wrapped half around him. 

"How do you _do_ that -- all that?" 

"Hey, I'm Zaphod Beeblebrox, man." 

Ford pondered that for a while, as something simple to allow his brain to practise on before ramping back up to full cognitive function. Then he pondered why he was here in the first place. "I don't suppose you'll be able to get that money for me." 

"Money?" Zaphod mumbled. "You didn't tell me you were a midnight spaceman, Ford." 

"Not for sex! For--" For the bet, he was trying to say, but between the fear, the earthquake, and the extreme post-coital relaxation, the lie didn't quite make it into his mouth in time. "--the gangsters. If I don't pay up soon, they'll kill me. Dead." 

Zaphod yawned in Ford's ear. "Organized crime is a real hassle. I've been trying to get my boys to get money off this guy that borrowed it from us, but he's broke. Broke!" 

Ford began to get a creepy feeling all up and down his spine, like when you've just watched a news report about a serial killer that's loose in your neighbourhood and suddenly you hear a bang in the other room that's probably the cat, but might not be. "Zaphod, you're in organized crime." 

"Disorganized crime, really." 

"And the name of your gang is...?" 

"The Ultra Respectable Money Lenders and Problem Solvers." 

Ford screamed loudly, causing both of them to jump and fall off of the chair. "That's the gang that's trying to kill me. _You_ are trying to kill me." 

"Don't freak out, man. It's just business." 

Ford crawled around the room until he found his torch. Switching it on, he grabbed his satchel and pulled out some papers. "Here," he said, thrusting them under Zaphod's left nose. "This is what you owe me. This is what I owe you. Call it square and I don't have to die when your thugs kill me and you don't have to die right now when I knock your skulls in with this torch." 

"So, there's no money, then?" 

"No, no money. Just bits of paper that say there _should_ be money." 

"What are we going to use to place the bet, then?" 

Ford grabbed Zaphod's hand. He forced a pen into it and made Zaphod initial both documents. "We'll cut off one of your heads and pawn it." 

"You should really relax, more, Ford," Zaphod said. "You'll never have any fun if you're so uptight." 

Ford sighed. The light wavered, then went out entirely. "Nobody came to rescue us." 

"They will." 

"What if they don't?" 

Zaphod's hand reached over and touched Ford _there_ again. "We'll have more sex." 

And, somehow, Ford couldn't find it in himself to argue. 

-end- 

 


End file.
